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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067267">a heart without song</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards'>andrewminyards</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i am made of memories [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(from the trials), Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, Pre-Relationship, Temporary Amnesia, Time Skips, Torture, Trial Of The Grasses (The Witcher), Witcher Jaskier | Dandelion, and the consequences that come with it, in which i ruin jaskier’s voice.. just a little, pre canon and post canon</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 22:09:27</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,892</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27067267</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/andrewminyards/pseuds/andrewminyards</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>As much as Geralt grunts at him, Jaskier knows that he secretly enjoys his singing - he’d caught one of Geralt’s rare smiles when Jaskier had sung a little ode to Roach when on the Path, and he’s seen the way Geralt relaxes at night when Jaskier hums a lullaby over the campfire. </p><p>His music is <i>everything</i> to him - it’s an integral part of his soul, and it’s ingrained deep into his very being. Jaskier can’t bear to even think of the possibility of losing his singing, his music - who is he without it? </p><p>(But Julian is no longer Jaskier - for four decades, he’d gotten a taste of what it would be like to be able to hold music in his soul, but this has been ripped from him by the Trials, and Julian is once again no more than a witcher.</p><p>He had a beautiful voice, once. He was able to create music, once. But no longer. This is the only music he gets now - the song of his swords slashing through the air, the song of blood and violence and death.)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>i am made of memories [4]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1784458</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>289</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a heart without song</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>written for witchertober day 17: throat, and naturally i had to go in for the angst, woops, sorry jaskier</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Sing me a song, Julek,” Marek whispers in the darkness of their room. In the courtyard outside, Julian can hear the clash of swords of the older witchers as they train, can hear the yelling of the instructors and the hum of conversation, and one day, Julian knows that he will be one of them, training with them, fighting with them. </p><p>Now, though, he and Marek huddle in their room, not yet old enough to join in with their older brothers. In a few days, they will go through the Trials, and they will officially become witchers, but right now, they’re here, the walls separating them from the rest of the keep, just the two of them, still young, still human.</p><p>“That song?” Julian asks, blinking at Marek. Music is not something that is welcomed in the keep - after all, witchers aren’t made for the joy of song, but for the violence of slaying monsters on the Path, and there is no room for music. It isn’t fitting for a witcher to sing. </p><p>But music is the only thing Julian remembers of his childhood - the gentle lilt of a woman’s voice, a sweet tune that he still remembers, a melody that he clings stubbornly to, even as his instructors have tried to beat it out of him. He’s only ever sung to Marek, who always looks at him with wide, wondering eyes whenever he sings, the imposing keep becoming less looming and oppressive whenever Julian’s soft voice fills its walls.</p><p>“Yes,” Marek agrees, bobbing his head up and down. “Come on, Julian, you know I love that song, and your voice is lovely!”</p><p>So Julian sings. He keeps his voice quiet, not wanting the older witchers to hear him and storm into their room, berating Julian for daring to sing, since <em>witchers don’t sing, witchers don’t make music, stop wasting your time doing such fanciful things, Julian, and focus on your training. </em>He keeps his voice quiet, but he sings for Marek, sings that lovely tune in his memories, the only remnant of his childhood, and he thinks that sweet lilt of the tune keeps the terror of the Trials at bay, pushing it back, encasing him and Marek in a bubble of warmth and separating them from the rest of the world.</p><p>Julian sings, and their room seems to brighten slightly, the sounds of training fading away as the gentle song dances through the room. A small smile appears on Marek’s face as he sways to the music, and Julian feels his lips tilt up in an answering smile as he keeps singing, the tune flowing out of him.</p><p>For a moment, he forgets that soon, he will go through the Trials and he might not survive; he forgets the way screams echo through the walls whenever the Trials happen, forgets that if he does survive the Trials, his life will have no more room for music, for song. He thinks only of his singing, of the bright and vibrant life that fills him when he sings, and forgets the pain and agony that lie in his future. </p><p>Here, with his music, Julian feels warm.</p>
<hr/><p>“It won’t be long,” the older witcher tells him, his smile too kind as he fusses with some potions. “It will be painful, but you’re strong, aren’t you, Julian? You’ll get through it. Just be strong, and you’ll come out of the other side faster and stronger and <em>better</em>.”</p><p>Julian’s breathing comes quick and shallow as he lays down, trying not to think of all the young children who’d been in his place once, trying not to think of the way they must have thrashed and screamed, of how sometimes, he can hear the echo of those screams at night. It’s his turn now, his turn to go through the Trials and become a proper witcher, and he tries not to think about how ten children enter the room, and less than three return. </p><p>He tries, and he fails. </p><p>“You’ll do great, Julian,” the witcher croons, standing over him. There’s something in his hands, and when Julian cranes his neck to get a glimpse, the witcher pushes him down with a shake of his head. Julian’s heartbeat races, the room suddenly too bright, and he digs his fingers into his sweaty palms.</p><p>He doesn’t want to do this, he wants to live, where’s Marek, why can’t he <em>leave</em>, he doesn’t want to die, how can he <em>stop this</em> -</p><p>Then the witcher does <em>something </em>to him, and Julian’s body is lit aflame.</p><p>Fire races through his veins, scorching his insides, flames licking at his skin, burning him, burning him, and when Julian screams, the fire spreads to his throat, searing the walls of his mouth. All he feels is burning, agonising pain, and the flames within him grow hotter, grow wilder, roaring and blazing through him, destroying him, leaving no part of his body untouched. </p><p>Julian screams and screams and screams, and with every scream that tears from his throat, the fire burns even hotter, scorching every inch of him and ripping him apart. His body is burned down into ashes and remade in the heat of the flames, and even when the fire burns his throat dry and no sound comes when he opens his mouth, Julian keeps screaming, and screaming, and screaming. A raging inferno chars his insides, sending waves and waves of pain through him but rendering his screams silent and soundless, devoured by the roar of the flames.</p><p>The fire burns for what feels like forever, unbearable heat boiling him alive and Julian feels like he can’t breathe, like he’s suffocating in the agonising burn of the fire, but the flames finally, finally die down, and Julian gulps for air, the cool air soothing his parched throat, painful from endless screaming and charred dry by the flames. </p><p>“You’ve done so well, child.” The older witcher’s voice is too loud, and Julian flinches away, the world too much in the aftermath of that eternal fire. A hand cards through his hair, and he shudders at the gentle touch. “You’ve done far better than we expected. So good.”</p><p>Julian forces his mouth open again, trying to force himself to say something, but nothing escapes his throat, and the witcher chuckles. </p><p>“I think we can make you even better,” he says, and removes his hand from Julian’s hair. The sound of vials clinking together rings in Julian’s ears, sending panic through him as he thinks, <em>oh no, please, no more, not again</em>.</p><p>“I’m sorry for this, dear child,” the witcher murmurs, and Julian tries to push himself to his feet, tries to run, but the moment he opens his eyes, the world blinds him, and the fire has leached the strength from his body, leaving his limbs weak and useless, and he can’t leave, can’t escape as the witcher presses him down and the flames engulf him once again.</p><p>This time, it feels like he’s melting, like fire has ignited in every part of him, the sheer heat flaying his skin and blazing through his bones. The pain rips a scream from his mouth, but it’s soundless, swallowed by the inferno, and the flames tear through his throat, scorching his voice and burning and clawing like talons at the walls of his throat. </p><p>The claws of the flames rip through his body, and it feels like another eternity before the cold air of the real world kisses his skin once again. He’s gasping for breath, and gods, the world is so <em>overwhelming</em>, the colours too bright, dancing before his eyes, the sounds too loud, echoing in his ears. The smell of his own blood and vomit reaches his nose, and Julian retches dryly at how acute the stink of his own bodily fluids are, his throat aching at the movement. </p><p>“Look at you.” The witcher’s voice is soft, but it booms in Julian’s ears. “You’re so much better now, Julian. A true witcher. We’ll make you the best.”</p><p>Julian tries to speak, but the remnants of the flames scratch at his throat, and only empty air escapes his mouth. The witcher places a hand on his back and guides him to his feet; Julian stumbles, his limbs clumsy and uncoordinated as the witcher ushers him to the door. </p><p>“You’ve made us proud, child.” The witcher’s golden eyes bore into Julian as he smiles, and something sickened crawls into the pits of Julian’s stomach. </p><p>Julian nods, quickly stumbling away from the witcher. He - he survived the Trials. It was pain, it was agony, and the memory of the raging inferno is seared deep into the depths of his mind, but he’s <em>here</em>, he <em>survived</em>, and then he passes by a sword hung across the wall and sees a flash of silver on the top of his head, and he - </p><p>He blinks at his reflection in the blade, his newly-enhanced vision catching onto every small detail. Golden eyes stare back at him in horror, the pupils slitted like a cat, like a witcher, and Julian had expected that, but his <em>hair</em> -</p><p>It’s a bright silver, the dark brown burned away by the flames, and a silent, strangled cry escapes Julian’s throat at the sight. He squeezes his eyes shut, praying that it’s nothing more than a trick of the light, a temporary lapse in his vision, but when he opens his eyes, his reflection stays the same, and he can see every silver strand of his hair in acute detail even in the dim light of the hallway. </p><p>He takes a step back, and the reflection takes a step back, and it really <em>is</em> his reflection, the Trials have done <em>something </em>to him and now he’s - he’s -</p><p>Julian flees to his room, curling into a ball on his bed as hot tears leak out of his eyes. He wants to sob, wants to cry out in horror, but his voice has been burned away by the fire of the Trials, his throat irreparably damaged by the hours and hours of screaming, and nothing comes out. </p><p>It’s hours later when Marek finally finds him. Julian has kept his mouth clamped shut, unwilling to even try to make a sound, and his hands are buried in his hair, his scalp painful and raw from the way he’s been tearing at his hair. What have the Trials <em>done </em>to him?</p><p>“Julek, oh my gods,” Marek breathes out in the doorway, and Julian raises his head so that their golden eyes meet. Marek’s gaze is filled with shock as he takes in the newly silver colour of Julian’s hair, his red-rimmed eyes, and he rushes forward, hands gripping Julian’s shoulders. “I - what <em>happened</em>?”</p><p>Julian licks his dry, cracked lips, and when he finally speaks, he wants to recoil at the sound of his own voice. “I don’t know,” he rasps out, and his <em>voice</em>, oh gods, his <em>voice</em>. It’s hoarse and raspy and rough, grating at his ears like gravel, and when he speaks, his voice scrapes past the parched walls of his throat. He thinks of the unending flames, the way they had burned through his throat, searing his voice, and Julian wants to <em>cry</em>.</p><p>“Oh, Julek,” Marek whispers, and pulls him into a hug. Julian finally lets himself go, lets himself sob, loud and ugly, into Marek’s shoulder. Each sob scratches at his sore, tender throat, and Julian cries for his loss, the loss of his humanity, the loss of his voice. </p><p>The agonising fire of the Trials is branded into his brain for the rest of his life.</p>
<hr/><p>Julian of Cintra is a witcher. He travels the Continent, he slays monsters, he protects towns and villages and vulnerable humans, he stays on the Path. </p><p>There’s a song that always lingers in the back of his mind, but Julian drowns it out with the shrieks of monsters, with the whistle of his swords as they cut through the air, with the raucous clang of blades. His voice grates at his throat every time he speaks, so he speaks as little as possible, which works well anyway, since humans recoil from his even further when he speaks. </p><p>Julian spends his winters with Marek. Over the past few years, they’ve distanced themselves from the keep, hating what their brethren are doing, hating the way they’ve deviated from the Path. </p><p>Marek doesn’t ask him to sing, not anymore. He’d asked Julian once, not long after the Trials, when he’d woken up shaking from a nightmare seeking reassurance, but Julian had shaken his head in a firm refusal. </p><p>Marek stopped asking him after that. </p><p>There’s no room in a witcher’s life for music anyway. A witcher isn’t built for music, isn’t built for singing, and Julian is a true witcher now. He has duties, he has responsibilities, and he can’t let himself be distracted by fanciful hobbies that humans interest themselves with. All he needs to do is stay on the Path, his swords on his back, and do what he was trained for, what he was made for, and nothing else.</p><p>There’s a song that lingers in the back of Julian’s mind. It never quite leaves. But Julian will never sing it again, even as part of him feels hollow, even as he’s dragged down by the Path, nothing but bleak darkness in his life.</p>
<hr/><p>“Toss a coin to your witcher,” Jaskier sings out, his voice carrying loud and clear across the room, and the patrons cheer him on, singing along at the top of their lungs. “Oh valley of plenty…”</p><p>He feels complete, the way he does whenever he sings before an enthusiastic audience. That’s why Jaskier had become a bard in the first place - music had <em>called</em> to him, even at a young age, even when he’d been stuck in Lettenhove in a noble position he never wanted. Music has always been a part of him, and Jaskier has never felt more joyous than he does now, travelling the Path with Geralt at his side, bringing the beauty of music to every corner of the Continent, spreading light and joy with his songs. </p><p>There’s nothing he treasures more than his voice, and Jaskier adores singing, adores the way sweet tunes and catchy melodies flow from his lips, the way his voice soars from his throat to fill the room with an ease borne of natural talent and years and years of practice. His voice is beautiful, he knows, and he wants to use it as well as he can.</p><p>There’s something about the way his singing can evoke emotions in others, bringing cheer to a bleak village, bringing heartbreak even to those who’ve never experienced it, spreading something <em>more</em> with just the power of his songs, and Jaskier loves it. </p><p>His singing is his constant companion, and he’s determined to use it to make people happy. His singing improved Geralt’s reputation, and as much as Geralt grunts at him, Jaskier knows that he secretly enjoys it - he’d caught one of Geralt’s rare smiles when Jaskier had sung a little ode to Roach when on the Path, and he’s seen the way Geralt relaxes at night when Jaskier hums a lullaby over the campfire. </p><p>Ciri enjoys his singing as well, demanding his songs whenever he visits her in Cintra. He sings her tales of his adventures, sings her stories of a world beyond the walls of Cintra, and relishes in the way she lights up every time. He sings to soothe her nightmares, sings that song that has always lingered in his head, a song that he’s known since childhood, and when he watches her face smooth out in sleep, the nightmare loosening its grip on her at the sound of Jaskier’s voice, warmth fills him at the way his singing calms her down, brings her gentle joy. </p><p>"Sing me a song, Jaskier," she would say, and Jaskier would comply, eager to spread the joy of his music to her, eager to make her happy.</p><p>His music is <em>everything</em> to him - it’s an integral part of his soul, and it’s ingrained deep into his very being. Jaskier can’t bear to even think of the possibility of losing his singing, his music - who is he without it? </p><p>In Rinde, he’d experienced the terrifying possibility of losing his voice, and Jaskier is so, so grateful to Yennefer for healing him, for saving him, because he doesn’t know what he would’ve done had the djinn’s power managed to truly ruin his voice. He doesn’t know who he is without his voice - after all, Jaskier had built himself on his music, and it’s such an important part of him that to lose it would be to lose something fundamental to his very being.</p><p>But he has Geralt, Jaskier reminds himself. As callous as Geralt may seem, Jaskier trusts him to always be there, and with Geralt, Jaskier knows that his voice is safe.</p><p>Music is a part of him, and his singing is carved deep into his soul. Jaskier loves music, loves singing, and as he performs in a tavern, dancing and weaving between the joyful patrons, he vows to continue spreading his music across the Continent, sharing this part of him that’s awe-inspiring and evocative and wonderful, bringing beauty to the world with his voice alone.</p>
<hr/><p>Julian sits beside the campfire, sharpening his sword. Across from him, Geralt is rummaging through his pack, going through his stash of food and stock of potions, and a little distance away, Julian hears Ciri’s soft footsteps crunching on the leaves on the forest floor as she wanders through the trees, far enough to be away from Julian’s line of sight but close enough that Julian can hear her. </p><p>The night is still and quiet, the moon shining above them and illuminating the clearing where they’ve chosen to camp. It’s a peaceful night, and Julian finds himself relaxing slightly, even as part of him stays alert for any sign of danger, a part of him trained and honed to detect anything out of the ordinary, anything that poses a danger to his two companions. </p><p>He meets Geralt’s eyes over the fire, and Julian’s hands still when Geralt looks at him with something soft in his eyes. </p><p>“What?” Julian asks, pushing down a wince at the way his voice rasps from his throat, hating the way his voice sounds, especially with the memory of being Jaskier fresh in his mind. “Do you need something?”</p><p>“No, I…” Geralt keeps staring at him, and Julian tries not to hunch in on himself under Geralt’s scrutiny. “You - is this how you’ve been travelling? This past year?”</p><p>“While on my own?” Julian questions, not quite sure what Geralt is trying to ask. “I.. guess?”</p><p>“Just… on the Path, taking to town for contracts, then leaving immediately after,” Geralt says, slow and unsure.</p><p>Julian shrugs. “Yeah. This is the life of a witcher.”</p><p>Geralt’s expression turns sad. “I know,” he murmurs, pained, and makes an aborted motion to reach out to Julian before withdrawing his hand awkwardly. “I just - the thought of you living like this, without -”</p><p>“This is the life of a witcher,” Julian repeats, harsher this time, trying not to think about how he’d lived just over a year ago, as Jaskier, with people adoring him and his singing, welcome wherever he went. “I’ve been doing this for a very long time.”</p><p>Geralt closes his eyes for a moment. The campfire flickers, sends shadows dancing across his face, and Julian lets himself <em>look</em>, lets himself stare for a moment before tearing his gaze away, fixing his eyes on something just to the left of Geralt’s head.</p><p>This is something he can’t have. </p><p>“I just…” Geralt trails off, his words hanging in the air, and Julian waits for a few seconds, but Geralt doesn’t continue, and he returns his attention to the sword on his lap, testing the blade with the pad of his finger. It’s quiet between them once again, only the soft whistle of the wind and the rustle of leaves to accompany them, and then - </p><p>Soft humming reaches Julian’s ears, and his hands freeze momentarily. Ciri is humming a song that is all too familiar to Julian, a sweet, lilting melody that mingles with the sound of the breeze and the leaves, merging with the peaceful sounds of nature, and something in Julian fractures.</p><p>He - Jaskier - had sung that song to Ciri years ago, coaxing her from her nightmares. It’s her favourite song, he knows - she loves singing it, and she’s always adored asking Jaskier to sing it for her. The walls of the castle had often been filled with the gentle tune of this song, softening the harshness of the opulent, extravagant decor, and Jaskier had always been happy to sing it for Ciri.</p><p>Now, years later, with Nilfgaard chasing after them, Ciri is humming the familiar melody of the song. It’s the song that Julian had always sung to Marek before the Trials, the song that is his only memory of his time before being a witcher, the song that has always lingered in the depths of his mind, whether he’d been Jaskier or Julian. It’s a song that is part of him, and it <em>hurts</em> to think that, for a few decades, Julian had been able to sing it, but he can no longer do so now. </p><p>His throat is suddenly scratchy and dry, and Julian has to avert his gaze from the campfire as he thinks of flames, thinks of burning, thinks of searing pain clawing at his throat, and his fingers tighten around the hilt of his sword until his knuckles turn white.</p><p>His music, his <em>singing </em>-</p><p>Some part of him has always recognised the importance of music. Even before he became Jaskier, even when he was nothing more than a witcher, that memory of his childhood, that memory of a single tune, had gotten him through the grueling pain of training and the bleak loneliness of the Path. Even when he was a witcher, even before he was a bard, Julian had known <em>something</em> of music.</p><p>As Jaskier, music had become an inseparable part of him, but Julian is no longer Jaskier, and as his throat itches and itches, as Ciri’s humming floats closer and closer, his heart aches and aches as he thinks of how he can no longer create music, how he can no longer sing - for four decades, he’d gotten a taste of what it would be like to be able to hold music in his very soul, but now, this has been ripped from him, and Julian is once again no more than a witcher, with only his memories of being Jaskier to accompany him, reminding him that he had a beautiful voice, once. He was able to create music, once.</p><p>But no longer. </p><p>Julian stares at the sword on his lap, glinting in the faint moonlight. He stares at his reflection in the blade, stares at his golden eyes and silver hair and scarred face, and sets it to the side with a resounding clang.</p><p>This is the only music he gets now. The song of his swords slashing through the air, the song of blood and violence and death.</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sing me a song, Julek.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Sing me a song, Jaskier.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>His heart aches, and his throat burns, and Julian mourns.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>there will be more about julian's singing and his voice in the main fic in a few chapters, and it will be angsty:)</p><p>come find me on tumblr at <a href="https://jaskicr.tumblr.com/">@jaskicr</a>!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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